


untitled

by volti



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Multi, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 16:41:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4270485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volti/pseuds/volti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reimagining of the bonfire scene, from Mikasa's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lalalascivious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalalascivious/gifts).



> This was the piece I wrote for Laurel, the winner of my monthly raffle! I hope you enjoy it.

The last thing you told Marco was to stay safe. With the wind in your hair and your hands callused and dirty. It should have been romantic, the sorts of things you used to read in the books the other girls sneaked into the barracks. You were so close to him that you could count the freckles on his nose, that he could have tugged on the fringe of your scarf in a stroke of reassurance.

You could have said more then. Should have. All you could manage was the tangle of your fingers in the cuff of his jacket. Because sure, you thought you could lose him, like anyone else; you just didn't think it would actually happen. Because it's so like you to be prepared for the worst without being prepared for the worst that it kills you.

Be safe. It sits like poison in the pit of your stomach.

It was the last thing you said to Eren, too--don't die--and for a brief, foolish moment, you wish Marco might come back, too. You hope, as you're standing in front of the pyre with the flames in your eyes and lining your veins, that he might burst from the wood and the ashes in the palm of Jean's hand, the way Eren probably burst from the belly of your worst enemy. Ready to fight, live all over again, make himself mean more than the naive pipe dreams from three years ago.

And Jean doesn't say anything. He only stands there with the light of the fire licking over his skin and clenches his fist even tighter, like if he loosens it even the slightest bit he could loser whatever he has to hold onto. And you kick at the gravel under the heel of your boot because you have nothing to say, again. Because apologies aren't enough, and you think, maybe if you'd said something else, Marco would still be here, smiling and leaning on Jean's shoulder in times of rest, spinning respect with all his ideals and the permission he would always ask for whenever he reached to touch the line of your hair.

"You wore yourself out," Jean finally tells you, turning on the balls of his feet to look you in the eye, and you wonder if some part of him blames you, in spite of all his care. If, as you two stand there, the moment is reserved only for him.

You open your mouth. Close it. No point in lying. No point in telling the truth.

"You've been through a lot today."

You nod.

"Are you going to see Eren later?" The words are steely, like he regrets saying them.

You nod again. Plant your feet into the ground. You should have done more. Could have done more. You have to go, you have to go--

He catches your sleeve when you turn toward the barracks again, makes sure you're looking at him when he coaxes your hand open and presses the ashes against your palm, and all you can feel is the warmth and how fucked up it all is.

"It's yours, too," Jean murmurs before he lets you go.


End file.
